


Luceo Non Uro

by WhitethornWolf



Category: The Arcana (Visual Novel)
Genre: Angst, Book XXI Spoilers, F/M, Family, Gen, Multi, Other, pre-plague
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-03-25
Updated: 2019-04-04
Packaged: 2019-12-07 11:01:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 17,704
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18233987
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WhitethornWolf/pseuds/WhitethornWolf
Summary: Luceo non uro - "I shine, not burn."Pre-plague stories covering the nine year period before the story begins, starting with when the apprentice first meets Asra.





	1. Concilio et Labore

**Author's Note:**

> The apprentice is mine; genderfluid and uses she/they pronouns interchangeably.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Concilio et labore - "By wisdom and effort."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Time: -9 years pre-canon.  
> Asra and Daya are 17 years old.

The crowds were rarely avoidable in Vesuvia during the day, especially in the central district, but they were particularly bad at this time of year. Even after sunset when the night market opened to the crowds of the Masquerade, the bustle was almost overwhelming.

Daya ducked and weaved through the throng of people, hopping to and fro across the boards placed above the canal. Her purchase she cradled close to her chest, and the smell of the hot, fresh bread made her stomach rumble. It was her luck that the market was open almost constantly during the days of the Masquerade, if only because it gave her something to do at night. The vendors always made a killing when the Count’s birthday celebrations rolled around, after all. Artisan bakers made cheaper versions of the delicacies served at the palace, tailors sold costumes of chiffon and cheap gold leaf, and winemakers offered tastings of rare imports from Atapra and Milova. A sea of fluttering costumes, glittering baubles and painted masks surrounded her, dazzling her with the colours and patterns of a hundred people. It was enough to be overwhelming. The palace had to be worse, surely…

For a moment Daya glanced wistfully at the stone stairs that wound out of sight, all the way up to the palace. What would it be like to wander the gardens in an elegant costume, she thought, perhaps dancing in a glittering ballroom and eating tiny sandwiches. 

“Keep dreaming,” she said out loud, and blushed at the odd look a passing reveler threw her. As if she would ever be invited to the Masquerade--as if she would ever have enough money for fancy dress! And who cared about tiny sandwiches, anyway?

If she dawdled any more the bread would get cold, and the fortune-teller might disappear into the night--not to be seen for another year, maybe more.

The shop was open late for once, the lantern still lit with an iridescent blue flame, and when Daya glanced at the side window she could see the faint, blurred outline of her aunt striding past. But it wasn’t time to go inside. Not yet. She slipped past, shoes padding silently on the cobblestones, and around the back of the building.

To her relief the booth was still there, a hastily constructed thing of a few upturned barrels and a tent poles draped with blue and purple cloths. She’d seen him setting up just after dawn, though the window’s frosted glass turned him into little more than a sunlight-dappled figure. When she’d gone to run errands later that day there had been a line; old men and mothers and a few street urchins shoving and pushing each other. Even though it was after dark the streets were still full of people, but...nobody lingered at the tent now, and the flap was still fastened to allow entry. Daya hesitated a moment, brushed away the shyness that clutched at her chest, and ducked inside.

There was barely any room inside the tent and yet, all she could see of its occupant was a pair of shoulders and a head of fluffy white curls, both illuminated by a central light that hovered above them. Then the drapes fell back with a rustle, throwing the space into darker shadows, and the fortune-teller straightened up. She caught and held his gaze; eyes of purple with delicate white eyelashes. 

God, he was  _ young _ . Barely into adolescence, she realised, about the same age as she. His gaze dropped to the bread in her hands, and Daya blushed.

“Here,” she said, and hastily shoved the bundle at him. “You’ve been working here all day, and I thought you might be--this is from my favourite baker.”

He looked so surprised it was almost comical, and for a moment he just stared down at the wrapped bundle.

“It’s pumpkin bread,” Daya added. “The best in the city. Well, I think so, anyway.”

The fortune-teller unwrapped the linen cautiously. His fingers dug into the loaf, pulling it apart, and the scent of warm spices filled the tent. He closed his eyes, inhaling. A dimple flashed in his cheek.

“It smells amazing,” he said, when he opened his eyes again. “You didn’t have to do that. Thanks.”

“Nonsense,” Daya said, and sat herself on the nearest barrel. “Everyone deserves to eat. Besides, you’ve been bringing customers to the shop. My aunt should be thanking  _ you _ .”

He placed the bread on the makeshift table between them and began to tear it into smaller pieces. Half of the pieces he wrapped up and tucked away into his bag. He offered her a piece from the remaining half, and began to eat the rest enthusiastically.

“This shop is your aunt’s?” he asked between bites. The bread disappeared at an alarming rate, confirming her suspicion that he hadn’t eaten all day.

Daya shook her head at another proffered piece and swung her legs idly, then started as the barrel wobbled. 

“Magic ingredients, potions, spells, and divination,” she said. “She’s been teaching me a few things.”

Her lessons were supposed to have begun an hour ago, but he didn’t need to know that.

The fortune-teller looked at her curiously. “You can do magic?”

“Ah, sort of. I’m still learning.” She watched him pick crumbs off the table, and something like pity stirred in her chest. “What’s your name?”

The flash of a dimple again. “Asra. And yours?”

“Dayana. But you can call me Daya, if you want.”

“Daya,” Asra said, almost to himself. 

The scarf at his shoulder rose upwards, and moments later a serpent’s head peeked out. Its tongue flicked, tasting the air, and it looked around with red eyes. Asra appeared completely unsurprised, glancing down and smiling.

“Who’s this?”

Asra lifted one finger to stroke under the snake’s chin. “This is Faust. She’s my familiar.”

“Oh,” Daya sighed, somewhat enviously. “I wish I had a familiar. She’s beautiful.”

Faust yawned widely, slithered down Asra’s shoulder and deposited herself on the table. He looked cautious for a split second as the snake brushed over Daya’s arm, cool and smooth...then visibly relaxed. 

“I’m glad you’re not afraid of snakes,” he said by way of explanation. “Some people are. You said you don’t have a familiar?”

“Not yet. I wish.”

“Not every magician finds their familiar right away, but it’ll be worth it once you do.”

Asra brushed the remaining crumbs off the table, then opened his hands. A deck of cards splayed out between his fingers.

“Let me read the cards for you.”

“Oh, you don’t have to,” Daya began, pulling the barrel closer, “but if you’re offering, I’ll say yes.”

He smiled. “It’s the least I can do. Do you have a question you want answered?”

Daya shook her head and leaned forward eagerly, hands clasped on the table. She’d seen her aunt read the cards for customers before, and some of her spreads were far more complex than she could hope to create. Most people who came for fortunes, however, preferred the simple three card spreads: past, present, future.

Asra shuffled and cut the deck with practiced ease. Daya watched avidly as he laid out the cards facedown; four in a square and one in the centre.

“An archetype reading,” she noted. “The five aspects of the self. The persona, the shadow, the opposite energies, the heart’s desire.”

“That’s right.” He smiled at her, and flipped the first card. An image of a snake curled around a polished wooden stick. It reminded her of his familiar.

“The Queen of Wands.”

“Yes. A person of focus and passion, drawing others into her orbit.” He smiled. “Or their orbit, if you prefer.”

Daya shrugged. “I don’t care which.”

Asra flipped the second card.

“The Seven of Swords, reversed. The second card, the shadow. A secret shame, or a refusal to acknowledge a situation or a truth. This can represent...running away from a difficulty instead of facing it.” Asra gave her a sly look. “An example would be avoiding magic lessons and having your fortune told instead.”

There was a split second in which they looked at each other, then burst out laughing.

“You got me,” Daya said, grinning widely. “I’m avoiding my aunt right now. I should have known I couldn’t hide from the cards.”

“Not these ones, at any rate.” Asra flipped the third card. “The World. Opportunity, success, and a journey. But in this specific context…” he paused for a moment, hand hovering over the illustration. “A suggestion, to be proud of all you have accomplished thus far.”

Their eyes locked again, and Daya felt a shiver run down her spine. 

She wasn’t new to the reading of the cards. Tarot and other divination techniques were part of her lessons: she read runes, bones and tea leaves also. And from time to time, Daya had spent her spare coin on happiness or success readings at some of the other fortune-teller booths found at the central market. Those were for idle curiosity, and the vendors little more than snake oil salesmen. She knew how to spot genuine skill, and Asra had it. Her eyes dropped to the fourth card, and she watched in anticipation as he turned it over.

“The Eight of Pentacles, reversed.” This time he looked up, a mischievous glint in his eye. “A struggle to maintain focus. Do you think the cards are trying to tell you something?”

“That’s the point, isn’t it?” she retorted, and he laughed. Deftly he flipped the fifth card...then sat back, rubbing his chin thoughtfully.

“The Fool,” he said after a moment.

"Wow. Rude.”

Asra glanced up at her uncertainly, his white eyebrows quirking. He relaxed when he saw her grin. “You scared me for a second.”

“I’m learning the cards, remember? I know what the Fool means. A cliff’s edge, with limitless potential for the future, if I only make the leap. Am I right?”

“Yes. You have all you need to move forward.”

Daya sat back, mirroring his pose, and watched as he gathered up the cards.

“May I?” she asked into the silence.

Asra paused in the middle of shuffling the deck, and his gaze fell upon her outstretched hand. For a second she thought he would refuse. It was somewhat of an audacious request, if she knew anything about magicians and tarot. But then he smiled and passed the deck over.

“Are you going to practice on me, Daya?” he asked, teasing.

She laughed. “I can try.”

Her fingers closed over the cards-- then a sudden rush of wind extinguished the lantern, throwing the booth into darkness. 

It was  _ magic _ , she realised. Pushing and pulling within her like a tide; rolling over her in a heady rush, tingling and warming under her palms. She gasped involuntarily, squeezing her eyes shut

The light returned moments later, throwing wild, swinging shadows over the booth. Daya drew in quick, ragged breaths.

“Mm-hm,” Asra said. He had an air of smug satisfaction about him, as he leaned his chin on one hand. “I thought so.”

She threw him a quizzical look but he said nothing further, so with a shrug she began to shuffle.

“Past, present and future,” she said, and let the cards flow through her hands. She could almost hear her aunt’s voice.

_ Relax. Empty your mind and let the cards speak to you in the silence.  _

She’d had trouble reading the cards most days, but this deck...this deck was special. How else could it have reacted to her magic?

Daya drew three cards, face down, and chose the far left. The Five of Cups.

“You had a great loss, many years ago,” she said tentatively. 

A flicker of pale eyelashes; otherwise no reaction from him. 

“Someone who was important, and sometimes, it seems as if pain is all you will ever know or feel.” The words came unbidden, drawn from her mouth in a whisper. “Sometimes...it’s easier to keep hurting, because hurting is infinitely less terrifying than feeling nothing at all. Hurting means the loss meant something. It made them real, and it keeps them alive, in a way.”

Asra said nothing. Embarrassed, Daya swiped at her eyes and let go of the card. “I’m sorry. That was totally inappropriate. Um...should I continue?”

A soft, tentative reply. “Please.”

Turning the second card took more courage than she cared to admit. The Magician stared up at her in the form of a fox, a small smile playing around its mouth.

“The Magician,” she said, and Asra’s eyebrows rose. “For your present.” Daya tapped her chin with one finger and closed her eyes, exhaling slowly. “You’re...performing an act of creation, shaping something from nothing. A place of pure magic, created from and shaped by your willpower.”

Asra’s eyes widened. “Huh.”

“I know...I’m not making much sense, I’m sorry. I still have trouble with my focus, as the cards pointed out.” She turned over the third card. “The Hermit, reversed.”

This time the words were easier to hold on to.

“The Hermit implies solitude, even when upright...reversed, it represents a deliberate isolation. A withdrawal from the world.” Frowning, she glanced up at him. “If you aren’t careful, you could lose your connections to this world...or fail to form new ones.”

Asra was silent for a long moment, staring thoughtfully at the cards laid out before him. Then he smiled. There was no hint of mischief in his expression, only interest.

“I thought you might have the skill for tarot,” he said, “and I was right. You’re the real deal.”

Daya opened her mouth to reply--then the slap of feet on cobblestones made her pause. More and more footsteps; some hurried and some leisurely. The sound of flutes floated from around the corner, clear and high and melodic. Voices growing louder.

Curiosity drew her up, and she peeked outside. Asra had picked a good spot for fortune-telling, that was for sure--the booth opened up to the wider part of the street, giving them a good view of the marketplace. Her skin prickled as she felt Asra’s presence at her shoulder.

“Look,” he said, pointing. She followed his gaze to a glittering carriage making its way past, headed for the town square.

“Fancy,” Daya mused. “Do you think it’s the Count? I’ve never seen him before.”

“The Count?” Asra said. “I don’t think so..”

There was a strange note in his voice she couldn’t quite pick out, but then he brushed past her and she promptly forgot in her curiosity. She followed him out into the street and joined the crowd gathering to watch.

The carriage was close now; close enough to snatch glimpses of its passenger. A cascade of violet curls. Brown skin. A long nose and elegant fingers. Red eyes.

“She looks like a noble,” Daya murmured, and Asra hummed beside her. “I wonder who she is.”

“ Dayana!"

The sharp, rich voice rang over the mutter of the crowds. Daya blushed violently as several people turned to look at her, then above--to the woman leaning over the balcony.

“Ah, it seems I’ve been caught.”

Asra laughed.

A little awkwardness settled over them as they turned back to face each other. A few moments of silence, then Daya finally spoke.

“Same time next year?”

Asra laughed again, quieter this time. “Who can say?”

“Even if I don’t see you...” she offered her hand, and he took it. “Thank you, Asra. I’ll take your advice if you do the same for me.”

“I will,” he promised. 

“ _ Dayana! _ ”

“Coming!” Daya called, and let go of his hand. An awkward smile, one more glance and he disappeared back inside the tent. The flap unfastened and fell over the entrance, and the light went out.

She went back to the shopfront, extinguished the lantern with a snap of her fingers and turned back to watch the carriage disappear around the corner. The last thought before she crossed the threshold was of purple eyes reflecting the lantern light, and a strange feeling in her chest that could have been intuition.

It wouldn’t be the last time she saw Asra, though--she was certain of that.

  
  



	2. Conjunctis Viribus

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Conjunctis viribus - With connected strength.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Time: -8 years pre-canon.  
> Asra and Daya are 18 years old.

It was a whole year before they saw each other again.

Following the Masquerade, the rest of the year passed quicker than Daya thought possible--perhaps quicker than they would have liked. During the day they served customers at the shop; an endless routine of describing the properties of newt flesh and meadowsweet, selling pep-up potions and reading tea leaves. At night they studied the  _ Liber Yvonis _ and practiced spells by candlelight.

The days blurred into weeks, then months. And the months rolled by.

They half-hoped to see him in passing, perhaps set up in one of the markets or in the town square. They’d even looked for him once or twice (as embarrassing as that was to admit)...but between tending the shop and learning magic, there hadn’t been the time to search properly. Then on the first night of next year’s Masquerade, they went out onto the balcony to watch the fireworks--and there, nestled against a stack of empty crates, was the little booth  draped in purple and blue cloths.

Daya leaned over the railing eagerly, almost tipping over in their haste, but there was no light emanating from beneath the drawn cloths. Perhaps he had left for the night...it was well past sunset after all, only a few more hours to midnight. Then the flap opened, twitched aside by a slender brown hand. A head of white hair appeared, gleaming in the moonlight.

_ “Hey!” _

Asra jumped and glanced around, then upwards.

“Remember me?” Daya called. They leaned over further, so the moonlight caught their features. Recognition flashed in his eyes.

“Dayana?”

“ _ Daya _ , please.”

“Daya, of course. Wow, it’s been a while…”

“It’s been an entire year, give or take.” They leaned their chin on their hand and gazed down. “Here to sell your tricks, fortune-teller?”

“Something like that,” Asra said. He looked pleased to see them, something that made them smile without really knowing why. “Why don’t you come down?”

“As you wish,” Daya said, and swung their legs over the railing. Asra’s expression changed from pleased to alarmed.

“Careful--”

They vaulted off the balcony, and his cry of alarm echoed up and down the street--but instead of falling they floated, drifting on a rush of magic that blew their voluminous skirts in disarray. 

Daya landed lightly on the street and promptly burst out laughing at the stunned look on Asra’s face. He began to laugh too, and their combined giggles chased the passing Masquerade revelers up and down the street.

“You’ve learned a few tricks,” Asra said, when they could both breathe again.

Daya nodded, beaming from ear to ear. “The study paid off, as you said. My aunt has me doing some spreads for her customers now, and I’m working on palmistry at the moment. I’m gaining a very  _ particular _ set of skills.”

“Skills that include leaping off balconies, of course.”

They bowed with a dramatic flourish. “Naturally, but I reserve that for special occasions.”

Asra’s cloak twitched and shuddered, then Faust peeked out from the fabric, her tongue tasting the air. 

Daya gasped in delight. “Oh--Faust!”

The snake passed into Asra’s hands and stretched out, her body wavering unsteadily.

“You want to hang with Daya, huh?” Asra said, and stepped closer. “Don’t be afraid if she squeezes you. It’s just her way of showing affection.”

The feeling of Faust’s cool, sinuous body was oddly comforting. Daya let the snake wind herself around their shoulders, and gave her a little stroke under the chin. 

“Who’s the best, hm?” they murmured, and they could have sworn the snake looked them right in the eye. “It’s  _ you _ , of course. You’re the best girl.”

Chuckling, Asra began to untie the drapes that made up his makeshift tent, and Daya moved to help him.

Inside the tent were a few upturned crates covered with thin pieces of fabric, scattered with little trinkets they hadn’t seen before. Sticks of incense in tiny jars, little clay figurines and a selection of delicately crafted masks.

“Did you make these?”

Asra straightened, folding a drape, and his gaze followed theirs. “Yes, sort of. My friend carved and shaped them. I painted them.”

“They’re wonderful,” Daya said honestly, and picked up one in the shape of a lion, complete with a mane of gold chiffon. “This is beautiful work. You should be proud.”

“Ah, I don’t know about that.” He shot them an embarrassed smile. “I just put some paint on them, but I’ll tell my friend you liked the work.”

“Is your friend here too?”

“No, he really doesn’t like the crowds, and it’s hard for him this time of year. All the extra people make him really nervous.” Asra shrugged. “So I come here by myself to sell the things we make.”

_ “Dayana!” _

Asra must have remembered the trouble they’d been in the first time they’d met (they  remembered too; vividly). His mouth twitched into a mischievous grin.

“Are you in trouble again, Daya?”

“No,” they laughed, and took a few steps back--enough to see the dark silhouette of their aunt leaning over the balcony. “I’m here, Aunty!”

“Daya, you left the balcony doors open again!” Tilaya called down. She sounded exasperated, and Daya shot Asra a grin.

“Sorry, Aunty. I’ll be inside in a few minutes, I promise.”

“Two minutes, and not one second late! Dinner is almost ready.”

The doors closed, and their aunt’s footsteps faded. Asra grinned.

“What was that about being in trouble?”

“Very funny. Hurry up so we can go inside and eat.”

Asra’s eyes widened. “Oh, I didn’t expect to--”

“I know you didn’t,” Daya said, and began to fold another drape. “I’m inviting you. Besides, if my aunt knew I had let you go home hungry, she’d be very cross. So really, you’d be doing me a favour.”

“Of course,” Asra said seriously, but his eyes were dancing. “Well, if I’m doing you a  _ favour, then I suppose we should hurry up.” _

 

The downstairs lanterns were still lit when Daya ushered him through the back door and into the little side room. Asra glanced around curiously, taking in the draped table and the worn velvet seats. The furniture took up nearly the entire room, as well as a pair of heavy curtains that separated it from the next room.

Daya propped the tent poles up on the wall and gestured for him to pass over the folded drapes.

“This is where my aunt does her readings,” they said. “Your things will be safe here, I promise.” They brushed past him, tied back the heavy curtains and waved him into the shop proper. “Come see the shop before we eat.”

Asra’s eyes went immediately to the glass cabinet, which wasn’t unexpected--it was long enough to take up most of the shop front, and glittered all sorts of tantalising colours in the lantern light. He wandered over to it and peered down at the displays.

“Rose quartz,” he noted, as Daya stood behind the cabinet. “Citrine, and that looks like...hematite.”

He inhaled deeply and they mimicked him, knowing what he would smell--dried herbs, books, tea and a thick, latent energy that permeated the very walls.

“You know,” he said. “I think I’ve been here before, a long time ago.”

“Oh?”

“My parents were magicians, too. I seem to remember accompanying them to a place like this.” Asra looked away, towards one of the bookshelves on the opposite wall. Daya could almost picture him as a child, staring at the glass displays with wide-eyed curiosity while his parents haggled prices in the background. 

He hadn’t mentioned his parents at all before, but it wasn’t like they knew each other that well.  Perhaps he had lost them; that would explain the  _ great loss _ the cards had spoken of. Then Tilaya’s voice floated from upstairs, calling their name, and a rich, savoury smell reached their nostrils. They packed away their curiosity. It was none of their business, after all.

Daya took the stairs two at a time and skidded breathlessly into the kitchen, where their aunt was supervising a large pot on the stove.

“Hi, Aunty. I brought a friend for dinner, just so you know. Hope we have enough--”

Aunt Tilaya turned on the spot, wooden spoon in hand. Dark red curls peeked out from her head scarf, plastered to her temples with sweat from standing so near to the stove. Her amber eyes narrowed in an expression of annoyance--then widened.

“ _ Dayana Firestone _ . Is that a snake?”

They’d forgotten Faust was still hanging around her shoulders, her tongue tasting the air. 

“Um...yes? But she’s not my snake. She’s--”

A few tentative footsteps and Asra’s head appeared in the stairwell. Tilaya recovered quickly, pressing the spoon into Daya’s hand and hurrying to greet him.

“And who is this?”

“That’s Asra,” Daya called from the kitchen as they extinguished the fire. “He’s my new friend.”

Asra smiled, and extended his hand. “Good evening.”

Tilaya pressed his hand between hers and gave him a swift, searching look. Then she smiled, warm and open.

“You look familiar,” she said. “Have you been here before? I think I would remember a person with your aura...you’re a powerful one, my word. Sit, sit.”

“I was just saying to Daya that your shop seems familiar too,” Asra replied, and sat in the chair she pulled out for him. “I must have come here with my parents.”

“If they were magicians like you, then they must have. Now, I hope you’re hungry.” Tilaya jerked her head at Daya, who emerged from the kitchen with two steaming bowls. “This child sprung your company on me at the last minute, but we have plenty to share.”

Asra shot a grin at Daya over their aunt’s shoulder, and they had the grace to look sheepish.

“Aunty makes the best stew, and it has everything in it.” 

“Flattery will get you nowhere with me, child,” Tilaya said, but she was smiling.

Daya set one of the bowls before Asra, then the other before their aunt. “Meat, vegetables, rice, seafood...it’s an all-in-one. And it’s spicy. Hope you can handle spicy.”

In truth, Daya had an ulterior motive for bringing Asra to dinner besides feeding him: their aunt was a talker with a knack for coaxing people to open up. It was part of what made her so sought after as a fortune-teller. People from all over town came to her not just for simple fortunes, but for her counsel as well. If anyone could get Asra to open up a little, it would be her.

“This is the fortune-teller who’s been bringing curious customers to our shop for the last two Masquerades, Aunty.” Daya gently gathered up Faust and returned her to Asra’s cloak, before retrieving their own bowl and sitting next to their aunt. 

Tilaya looked at him with renewed interest and paused with her fork halfway to her mouth. 

“So,” she said, with a satisfied smile. “You’re the one who’s responsible for my influx of customers. And you tell fortunes! I can see why my Daya likes you.”

Daya blushed furiously and gave their aunt a surreptitious glare.  
“I’m happy I could help,” Asra said seriously, though his expression was amused.

* * *

 

The stew disappeared rapidly between them. Through Tilaya’s gentle questioning they learned Asra lived with his friend on the outskirts of town, and that he had lost his family when he was younger. That all but confirmed they had been the  _ great loss _ spoken of by the cards, and Daya felt a little guilty for bringing such a private thing to light--especially when they had been strangers at the time. They couldn’t exactly say so without intruding further, but…

“I lost my parents too.”

They could reciprocate, at least.

Asra’s eyes widened almost imperceptibly as they spoke into the silence. Daya’s fingers twisted around their fork, dropping their gaze. With a click of her tongue Tilaya wrapped an arm about them and pulled them close, pressing her lips to the top of their curly head.

Asra said nothing, but he didn’t need to. His look spoke volumes.

“It wasn’t so long ago,” their aunt said, her voice hushed. Daya kept their gaze down, blinking furiously. “Just under two years now. Though of course, the passing of time doesn’t make the loss of any less importance.”

“I’m so sorry.”

Daya squirmed, but let Asra’s sympathy wash over their. Turnabout was fair play, after all.

“Thank you. Losing family is hard.” Tilaya released Daya and chucked them under the chin, her eyes affectionate. “Daya came to live with me after it happened. It was a great loss, but...I’m still given a blessing. The opportunity to teach this treasure everything I know--everything their Apa didn’t have the time to teach them.” She stood and began to gather their bowls and forks, waving Daya away as they moved to help. “Go entertain your guest.”

There was a moment’s silence, punctuated by the clink of dishes and Tilaya’s humming. Then Daya leaned their chin on their hands and smiled brightly at Asra. 

“What did you think of the stew?”

“It was delicious.” His fingers scritched Faust under the chin. “I...I should leave soon. Muriel...my friend will be expecting me back.”

Disappointment must have soured their expression, for Asra smiled at them. “Did you want to practice on me again?”

“I can do actual readings now, thank you very much,” they retorted, and stood. “Come on. I’ll show you.”

The lanterns downstairs brightened with a flick of their fingers as they headed down the stairs. The smell of the stew lingered, blending with the warmth of the energy pulsating off the walls.

“Come into my lair,” Daya said, waving him towards the backroom, and he giggled. “Come, come, my hapless querent. Ask the Arcana to read your fortune….”

“Do you put on this act for all of your customers?”

“No,” they laughed. “Well, maybe. My aunt says it’s as much about an air of mystery as the actual reading. I’m about as mysterious as...well, I don’t know. Not very mysterious, I’m afraid.”

This time when they touched the deck there was no rush of magic, and the lantern stayed lit--but a faint whisper brushed by their ear, making them jump, and the cards hummed under their fingers.

“They recognise your aura,” Asra observed. He watched with interest as they shuffled; he sat next to them rather than across the table, so he could watch their movements.

“The archetype reading.” Daya laid out five cards, and his eyebrows rose. “The five aspects of the self. The persona, the shadow, the opposite energies, the heart’s desire.”

Asra’s eyes lidded; a smirk played around his mouth, but he said nothing.

They flipped the first card.

“The Magician.”

Asra stilled. His eyelids fluttered, and he leaned forward slightly. “And? What does the card say?”

Daya passed their hand over the card and calmed their breath. In the silence they felt it--a faint whisper against her ear; the answering echo of their own intuition.

“Aside from the obvious? It means you’re in control of your own path, your own desires. Didn’t I pull this card for you the last time?”

“You did,” Asra replied. He stared at the card thoughtfully.

“It meant something different. Today it means you identify most with this archetype. He’s part of the self you present to the world, how you like to be perceived.”

They opened their eyes and cast him a quick glance, but his expression was neutral. So they turned over the second card.

“Temperance, reversed.”

“Whaaat,” Asra said, under his breath, and Daya laughed.

“Temperance is my aunt’s favourite card,” they said. “Reversed, it indicates you react with extreme measures in a crisis. It’s...well, it can be interesting to think about, the lengths you might go to protect someone you cared about. What you would do, or wouldn’t do.”

They tapped the card thoughtfully. Asra caught their eyes again, opened his mouth to speak. 

“Don’t worry,” Daya added, and he fell silent. “You don’t have to tell me. Something to think about, at least.” Without waiting for a response they flipped the third card. “The Ace of Cups. This is...a good card. It means when you love, you love honestly and deeply.”

Asra smirked. “Is that a surprise to you, Daya?”

“No. But you clearly do work on maintaining that air of mystery.” Asra gave them a little teasing nudge, and they laughed. 

“Don’t act like you don’t know, fortune-teller,” they said, eyebrows raised. “You charmed my aunt, but you can’t fool me. I see you.”

Asra said nothing, but his smile brightened. Laughing, Daya turned over the fourth card.

“The Queen of Pentacles. Someone solid and grounded. Reliable.”

“I’m sure my friend doesn’t think so right now.”

The last card lay between them. Daya flipped it reluctantly, knowing this meant the end of their evening.

“The--huh. The Lovers.”

Asra’s eyes widened, and to their surprise a blush began to bloom across his cheeks. “The Lovers?”

“It’s not that literal,” Daya said hastily. Their cheeks burned with heat, and silently she thanked the darkness of their skin for hiding the worst of it. “It can mean the desire for partnership and connection. It’s a good card. It means you want to reach out to other people. Anyway, why am I explaining this? You already know that.”

They expected Asra to give some teasing remark in reply, but he was oddly quiet as they stacked the deck and gave it back to him.

“Well? How did I do?”

Asra stared down at the deck in silence. As the seconds crawled by Daya thought perhaps they had offended him in some way. Then he passed his hand over the cards and they vanished.

“You’ve improved so much, Daya,” he said, and looked up at her. “And beyond that...you have a knack for seeing people.”

“I see  _ you _ .”

A quick breath drawn in through parted lips--then Tilaya’s voice reached them from the stairwell.

“Daya! Asra! Where are you two?”

They emerged from the back room to find Tilaya descending the stairs. In one hand she clutched a battered old broom; in the other a little wrapped ceramic pot.

“There you are,” she said. “Good, you haven’t left yet. Here, this is for you--” she handed Asra the pot, and Daya the broom. “--and  _ this  _ is for you.”

Asra looked startled, but quickly recovered. “Thank you, Aunt.”

“How come Asra gets leftovers and I get sweeping duty?” Daya complained.

Tilaya gave them a gentle pinch on the cheek. “Because Asra is my guest, and you are my apprentice. Where are your manners, child? And don’t you give me that look. I know you were flexing that sense of humour.”

Grinning, Daya took the broom and tucked it in the crook of their arm. Tilaya smiled at Asra.

“Don’t be a stranger now,” she said. “I’ll be wanting to know what your friend thinks of my stew. And I know my Dayana will want you to visit, too.”

With a pat to Asra’s shoulder, Tilaya turned and went back upstairs. Daya waited for the sound of her swishing skirt to fade, then turned back to Asra with an embarrassed smile.

“Well, there you have it,” they said. “You have to visit so my aunt can embarrass me some more. It’s her favourite pastime.”

“Daya…” Asra paused, biting his lip, as if trying to find the words. Then he pulled them into a quick hug. “Thank you.”

“Nonsense.” They reached for his hand and gave it a gentle squeeze. “Just promise it won’t be an entire year before we see each other again.”

“I will.” He gave them a small smile, and clutched the pot close to his chest. “I will see you soon. You can hold me to that.”


	3. Memento vivere

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Memento vivere - remember to live.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Time: -6 years pre-canon  
> Asra and Daya are just over 20 years old.

Vesuvia never had winter in the truest sense of the word. Not like the South, where snow covered entire towns and cities in icy blankets, and you could go days without seeing sunlight. In Vesuvia winter came in gusts of wind and chilly rain, and it was usually gone almost as quickly as it came--chased away by dry and sluggish summer.

The winter after Daya’s third encounter with Asra clung to the city for what seemed like forever. Even as the last month rolled around, the wind still howled around the streets accompanied by smatterings of rain, and you were lucky if you caught the sun peeking out between an endless blanket of grey clouds.

Today was no exception.

Gusts of wind pulled at Daya’s scarf and thick pants as she wandered the market, shopping list clutched in hand. The place was emptier than usual, but that wasn’t saying much. It was still crowded enough she had to step carefully lest she tread on toes or skirts. A sea of faces; some recognisable, but mostly strangers.

For a moment she considered turning around and going home. She was a child of summer after all, and the cold had worn out its welcome two months ago. But then -- she caught sight of a tousled white head, and her heart skipped a beat.

Could it be... _ him? _

Daya’s feet carried her forward without thinking, her eyes focused on the white. A flash of a young face and violet eyes -- he had his back to her, wandering from stall to stall with a leisurely air, touched by neither the crowd nor the wind chill. 

It  _ was  _ him, she thought, and her heart began to pound. It was Asra. 

“Asra!” she called and he stopped, head turning this way and that. Then a shoulder bumped into her hard enough to make her drop the shopping list. By the time she scrambled to retrieve it, he was gone.

“Damn!”

Daya shoved the list into her pocket and pushed forward angrily, glaring at the man who’d sideswiped her. A quick scan of the crowd showed no sign of Asra, and she gritted her teeth in frustration. How exactly a person with such distinctive looks could disappear so quickly was a mystery. Or maybe it was--quite literally--magic.

Shouts reached her ears, accompanied by the sound of heavy footsteps, and the press of people swept her forward in a sudden panic. Something was happening behind them, and whatever--or  _ whoever _ \-- made several people forward and away in haste.

Daya squeezed her way past an elderly couple and stood on tiptoes to look around for Asra one more time. It had already been over six months since the Masquerade, and she’d never seen him in town before. If she lost him in the crowd it could be another six before she saw him again.

Another shoulder bumped her roughly. Daya staggered back--but instead of cobblestone street, her foot met air. 

In that split second she tensed with terror, arms windmilling to keep her balance. Below was the canal, dirty and cold and nigh impossible to climb out of without help. 

She overbalanced, crying out as she fell--then stopped with a rough jerk, her feet slipping for purchase on the wet cobblestones. Disoriented, it took her a few seconds to realise there were large hands gripping her wrists, holding them securely. Her gaze darted upward, from the hands to the worn tunic and broad chest, then several inches above.

A pair of green eyes peered at her from a black mane of hair. The face was young, barely into adulthood, with the faintest suggestion of dark scruff on their chin.

“Nice catch, Muriel,” said a familiar voice, and Daya leaned to the side. There was Asra, beaming at them, his face half covered by a voluminous purple scarf.

For a moment Daya simply stared in surprise, glancing from Asra to the young man who held her.

“You’re Muriel?” she said eventually, drinking him in. “ _ Wow _ .”

Asra laughed, and a flush spread over Muriel’s fair cheeks. He grunted, stepped back and let her go, steadying her with one hand on her shoulder.

“It’s good to you see you, Daya,” Asra said. He wrapped her in a hug, laying his chin on her shoulder. “How have you been?”

“I--uh.” Daya glanced at Muriel, only to see him stiffen. He was looking over their heads, and there was something like fear on his face.

“He’s coming,” he said gruffly. Urgently, Daya thought, as she followed his gaze. “Hurry. He’ll see us.”

Asra glanced in the same direction, and his eyes narrowed. 

“Come on, Daya,” he said. “Let’s get out of the street.”

Without waiting for a reply he pulled her towards a little side alley near the market steps. Muriel followed, his hands clutching nervously at his cloak.

The alley was little more than a space between two market stalls set up under a crumbling stone arch. Daya leaned against it  and peeked back out at the market, where the crowd continued to thin out.

“Who are you talking about?” she asked, but Asra put a finger to his lips. Shoulder to shoulder, they watched.

A guard passed. Then two. Then three. Then--a tall figure clad in brilliant scarlet, with a flowing cape that flapped almost comically in the wind. Daya caught a striking profile and slicked blonde hair before they passed out of view.

“Count Lucio,” Asra whispered in her ear.

Daya craned her neck to catch another glimpse at the man as he passed with his retinue. She’d never seen the Count in all their comings and goings in Vesuvia. She knew only two things about him: that he was spoken of with fear, and that he threw the Masquerade parties in honour of his own birthday.

The Count’s footsteps faded and Asra visibly relaxed.

“He’s gone,” he said to Muriel, who was standing further back in shadow.

Muriel didn’t move. He was still staring out into the marketplace, a furrow between his brows, and his fingers curled reflexively in his cloak.

Daya approached him curiously, and his eyes snapped to her face.

“So  _ you’re _ Asra’s friend. You know, he’s told me next to nothing about you.”

“That’s not true,” Asra said in the background. “Is it? I must have.”

“Only that he helps you create those beautiful masks,” Daya replied, glancing at him. She turned and smiled up at Muriel, who looked like he didn’t quite know what to make of her. “So, thanks for catching me.”

He mumbled something suspiciously like ‘you’re welcome.’

“And you’re...definitely not what I expected.”

“What did you expect?” Asra said, as he came up behind them. He slid an arm arround Daya’s waist and gave her a little squeeze.

“Someone like you, I guess.” She tried to ignore the sudden quickening of her heartbeat at the warm weight of his head on her shoulder. “Are you a magician too, Muriel?”

“No.”

“That’s not true,” Asra said admonishingly. “He’s just being modest. He’s really good at protection charms and casting the runes.”

An awkward silence fell. Muriel pulled his cloak tighter around his shoulders and scuffed his worn boots on the cobblestones. Daya exchanged a glance with Asra, wondering how they could have possibly met. Muriel seemed the least likely person to be friends with...well, with anyone.

“Anyway, this is Dayana,” Asra said to his friend. “Daya, this is Muriel. He’s my oldest friend. I’ve known him since I was...what, six years old?”

“Seven.”

“We met after Muriel ran afoul of the Count one time…”

“ _ Asra _ ,” Muriel rumbled. His dark brows drew together; he looked away when Daya gave him a questioning glance.

Asra smiled and patted his arm. “You can trust Daya. They’ve been good to me.”

“I’m very trustworthy,” Daya said cheekily. “I’m a fortune-teller. Utmost discretion at all times.”

Muriel looked doubtful, but nodded, and Asra turned back to Daya. “Out of curiosity...why were you at the market? Running errands...or perhaps avoiding them?”

“Why do you always assume I’m getting into trouble?” she replied, and he laughed. “It’s my birthday, if you must know, and I have the day off.”

A smile lit up his face. “Is it really?”

“Yes, and I’m celebrating by breathing the first fresh air I’ve had in a week.”

“Aw, that’s not all, is it? Come on, let’s do something together.” He beamed enthusiastically at her. “What do you say?”

Daya felt the tips of her ears redden and surreptitiously pulled up her hood.  

“I’d like that,” she said finally, and returned the smile.

Asra grinned up at Muriel. “Come on. Come join us.”

Muriel glanced down at the two of them; at Asra’s arm around her. He shook his head.

Asra looked confused.

“Why not?” he asked. “Daya doesn’t mind...do you?”

She did mind a little, but it felt rude to say. “No, of course not!”

“Too many people,” Muriel grunted, his gaze fixed on the ground. “I want to go.”

“Alright,” Asra said, though he looked disappointed. “I guess I’ll see you later.”

Without another word Muriel turned and shuffled back down the alley, further into the darkness.

Daya frowned. “Is he...okay?”

Asra stared after Muriel as his footsteps faded. Then he sighed and turned back to her.

“He’ll be alright,” he said. “The crowds are hard enough for him, but...I think seeing the Count really scared him.”

“What could the Count of Vesuvia possibly want with him?”

“It’s a long story, and..it’s not really mine to tell.” Asra looked into her eyes. “Don’t worry about it. I’ll see him again at home. In the meantime, we have the whole day to ourselves. We should enjoy it.”

 

Asra led her back into the market. Count Lucio was long gone; the crowds had returned with more volume than ever. Sun had broken through the clouds, streaming onto upturned faces and making the canal waters glitter.

“You should stay close,” he said into her ear. “I don’t want to lose you.”

He took her hand. There went her heart again, skipping a beat at the warmth of Asra’s fingers. His grip tightened and their fingers entwined, and her heart thundered in their ears.

She had missed his little touches. There was something different about them now, but perhaps that was what happened after she hadn’t seen him for eight months. Or perhaps it was something else. 

She didn’t particularly feel comfortable thinking too much about that. Not until she was sure what this meant.

Asra smiled at her, caught in a sunbeam that lit up his skin in shades of gold.

“No Faust today?” Daya said hopefully, if only to distract from her blushing face.

He shook his head. “She sleeps a lot this time of year. Winter makes her grumpy.”

The people began to thin out gradually as they walked, but their hands remained entwined. Not that she was complaining. Quite the opposite.

“I used to live in this district,” Daya said, as their footsteps echoed down another little side street.

“Oh?” Asra said. “Huh, I guess I thought you always lived at the shop.”

“No, the shop has always belonged to my aunt. My parents had a house around here, but it’s probably gone now. When they died, she took me in.”

Daya remembered the day vividly: her aunt’s voice as she packed mementos into a box. The numbness that overtook her mind, dispersing the heavy sadness in her stomach...leaving only an ache to feel something;  _ anything _ . Her aunt’s hand in hers as they left the house behind, with only a box of objects and a bag of clothes. Everything else had to be burned.

The sting of air hit Daya’s face, whipping the curls out of her eyes. She breathed in deep and sighed at the salty smell.

“You’re bringing me to the docks,” she said in delight.

“Sort of,” Asra replied, but he didn’t elaborate--only quickened his pace.

They followed the canals as they began to widen and spread farther apart, and the buildings grew shabbier. Quick, then quicker they walked--then trotted--then finally ran, laughing into the chilled wind.

“This way!” Asra shouted, and pulled his hand away. He surged ahead, boots pounding on the boardwalk. Heart hammering, Daya followed. 

The wind whipped at her thick clothes, tearing the breath from her lungs, but it was sunny and fresh and wonderfully briny air. Before them the Vesuvian bay opened up to clear waters; the silhouettes of fishing boats showed hazy against the horizon.

Was he going to jump into the water, Daya wondered suddenly--then with a laugh he leapt off the pier and vanished.

Daya skidded to a halt, almost falling over the edge in her haste. “Whoa!”

“Down here!” came Asra’s voice from below.

Cautiously she sat and swung her legs over the edge, crying out as a hand grabbed her ankle--then his face appeared by her boot, grinning mischievously.

“Did I startle you, Daya?”

“That is not funny.”

“It’s a little funny.” He held out his hands. “Come on. You trust me, don’t you?”

Daya rolled her eyes, but let him help her down.

Underneath the docks it was dark, cold, and the air smelled strongly of brine and rotting fish. Asra’s arms lingered around her waist for a few seconds longer. He was so close; enough to see the curl of his white eyelashes on his cheek.

“Can you feel that?” he whispered.

Daya closed her eyes and cast out her senses.

At first it was a little whisper at the edge of her awareness, like a breath ghosting over her skin. Then a bloom of light; orange and purple and blue, swirling in ephemeral colours. 

She opened her eyes and squinted. There was a glowing outline in the air before them, shaped like an arch similar to the ones in the marketplace. It was impossible to see beyond the entrance to the room beyond. Only a mass of swirling colours and light.

“You found it!” Asra said, laughing. “You’re amazing, Daya. I knew you could do it.”

He moved away from her and headed for the glowing doorway. When he stood before it, he glanced over his shoulder and beckoned her.

Daya didn’t move.

“Asra…places like this are dangerous.”

He paused, blinking at her from under his curls, then smiled. “You’re right, but you don’t have to worry. I made this place.”

She gave him a puzzled look. “I thought you lived with Muriel.”

“Now I do...but when I was younger, I didn’t have anywhere to live. So I created this place.” Asra held out his hand, his eyes warm. “I promise it’s safe. I would never put you in danger.”

Daya hesitated, but his smile was so encouraging she found herself drawn back to him, taking his hand.

The tinkling of bells greeted her as they stepped through the entrance. A warm wall of air rushed over her, pulling the damp and chill from her bones. And beyond that...it looked like a little cave. Shifting colours wandered lazily across the walls, like reflections on water, but it was dry and warm inside. Daya spotted a few familiar drapes and tent poles leaning against the wall, and grinned. 

Asra put down his bag and flopped onto a layer of worn blankets and furs, spreading his skirt around him. His eyes followed her movement around the cave as she wandered, picking up little trinkets cluttered on the rock shelves. Seashells, driftwood, some dusty bottles that smelled like myrrh and lavender.

“One of my fathers was a sailor, you know,” Daya said idly. Her fingers brushed over a piece of glass, worn smooth by the sea. “He was from Macawi Port. He came to town for a job one day and met my Apa on the docks. Never went back.”

With the trinkets examined, Daya sat down across from Asra. He laid his head on his knees and watched her, blinking like a contented cat.

“Your aunt said your Apa was a magician too, wasn’t he?”

“Mm-hm. He had a talent for water magic. He loved the sea...which I suppose is why Dad loved him so.”

Her voice faltered into silence. Five years had dulled the pain of her fathers’ loss somewhat, but it hurt to think about them for too long.

Asra’s hand brushed over hers, and she tensed.

“You okay?”

Daya stuttered, caught between honesty and embarrassment at her sudden vulnerability.

“Ah, I’m…” she trailed off, paused, then began again. “I’m just unsure what we’re doing right now. What this means. Or ...I suppose what this even is.”

His eyes were bright with curiosity. “What do you want it to be?”

Daya rested her hands on her knees and dropped her gaze.

“Putting it all on me, huh?” she muttered, and he laughed softly. “If I saw you more than once or twice a year, it would make this a lot easier. I wish...”

Asra moved a little closer, blinking in the dim light. “What do you mean?”

She couldn’t look at him, however much of a coward it made her feel. “Ah, I think it would be easier to figure out how I feel, or...even to explain it. Listen,” she added, and glanced up at him. “We’re friends, aren’t we?”

Asra looked puzzled. “Do you have to ask? Of course we are.”

Her heart was still pounding, and the room was suddenly a little  _ too _ warm. Daya unwound her scarf and piled it in her lap, then took a deep breath to steady her nerves.

She wasn’t a coward. She  _ wasn’t _ . She knew how she felt; she’d known it for a long time. Saying it out loud was just one more step. A leap off a cliff into the unknown, but--

“Daya?”

Daya’s eyes opened, her ears burning.

“Sometimes I think about you,” she said hurriedly, before she could talk herself out of it. “Not as a friend, as--as  _ more _ than that.” Asra’s eyes widened, his lips parting in surprise, and she swallowed. “I don’t know how to explain it. And even if we can’t--if you don’t want to--I still want to see more of you.”

“You...think about me?” he said, half to himself.

“Of course I do.” She gave an embarrassed laugh, but he was already unfolding himself and moving closer. Her blood quickened; his lovely eyes caught hers in an expression she couldn't quite identify. His voice, already soft, was barely above a whisper.

“I think about you too.”

Her breaths came in quick bursts; her skin sang with how close he was now. Her cheeks were so red she could all but feel the heat coming off them.

Asra planted one hand on the other side of her folded legs. The other he kept resting on hers, thumb rubbing across her knuckles. He leaned forward, ever closer, and some part of her noticed his breathing quicken. She closed her eyes as his lips pressed against hers, soft and warm; enough to make the pulse thunder in her ears.

“ _ Asra _ ,” she breathed when they broke apart, and he laughed at the disbelief and surprise in her expression. “I...uh..happy birthday to me?”

Asra’s laughter tickled her cheek. He sat back on his haunches, smiling brilliantly at her. He was flushed, his eyes glittering, his curls a little tousled from the wind. He looked so carefree and alive she couldn’t help but draw forward for another kiss, soft and full of feeling.

“You’re so sweet,” he said against her lips, before punctuating his words with a kiss.

Daya had to laugh, breathless and high-pitched. “Sweet?  _ Me? _ ”

“You,” Asra murmured. His warm hands combed through her hair, pushing her purple-black curls from her eyes, and he leaned in again. “Yes, you.”

* * *

Daya arrived home just on sunset; still with swollen lips, red cheeks and a heart so light she could have floated away.

She paused on the step to rearrange her clothes and pat down her unruly hair. A few hours of kissing Asra had left her a little disheveled; knowing her aunt she would pick up on the slightest sign of  _ mischief _ , as she liked to call it. 

She hadn’t wanted to leave him, even if the cave had grown uncomfortably warm after a while. But he would see her again soon, he promised, after leaving her at the docks. 

This was the start of something new and exciting. She knew it in her heart.

“Oh, come on! You pulled that card on me last time, too. No tricks!”

Daya opened the door to a raised voice that struck her with a sudden sense of deja vu. Next came her aunt’s reply, rich and smooth with none of her usual warmth.

“I don’t control the cards. This is the reading you asked for, and as I reminded you, the cards do not lie. Even to you, milord.”

“Excuse me?! Do you know who I am?”

“I have not forgotten, milord.”

She closed the door and the voices fell silent. Seconds later the backroom curtain swept aside and Tilaya entered the shop. Daya caught sight of blonde hair and a cold eye before the curtain fell back into position.

“There you are,” Tilaya said, a little breathlessly. The colour was high on her cheeks; she looked angry and fearful, and the expression made Daya instantly anxious. “Go on upstairs now. I’m doing one more reading.”

“A customer? Is that--”

“Upstairs, child.” Her aunt’s eyes widened for emphasis. “Go.”

Only when Daya disappeared halfway up the stairwell did the voices begin again. She shivered at the faint rumble of conversation below her...but before long, thoughts of Asra chased away the lingering memory of the fear in her aunt’s eyes.


	4. Dona nobis pacem

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dona nobis pacem - Grant us peace.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Time: -7/-6 years pre-canon  
> Asra and Daya are 19/20 years old.
> 
> I should add that it's not 'official' canon that Count Lucio had anything to do with the Apprentice's aunt's passing. It's my personal canon, and if you'd like to use it or discard it, that's up to you.

“She left everything to you,” the lawyer said.

Daya stared down at the papers spread across the backroom table. Some were so old they had yellowed and frayed around the edges, and the ink was beginning to fade. Some looked like they’d been written only yesterday. None of them made any sense.

Trust deeds, testaments, inspection certificates, the man had said. He was a lawyer, a legal representative appointed to carry out her aunt’s last wishes.

Last wishes. As if that was something so simple to express in mere words.

“Madam Firestone wrote her will some five years ago.” The lawyer presented her with a paper stamped with an unfamiliar crest. “She included you as the sole beneficiary. The premises she leaves to you, as well as a sum of money to be held in trust until you reach the age of twenty-five.”

“So I won’t have to leave,” Daya said softly.

“No, miss. This is your home.” The lawyer smiled at her, and began to tidy up the stack of papers. “You keep these, I have copies. Take some time to think about your plans, then come to see me.”

Daya saw him to the door with something resembling a smile; something which cost her more effort than she cared to admit. Then she returned to the backroom and sat down heavily, staring at the neat pile of documents.

A quick knock on the back door made her jump. Seconds later a whisper of magic rushed over the frame, turning the wood a glowing white.

Daya didn’t react. Only one person she knew could pass through the warding spell.

Asra stepped inside, squinting as his eyes adjusted to the low light. His eyes fell on the papers, then on Daya.

“Daya,” he said-- sighed, she thought, the relief heavy in his voice.

She lifted her head wearily. “Hello, Asra.”

He shrugged off his coat, revealing Faust wrapped around his shoulders, and tossed it on a chair. Then he climbed into her lap, pulling her into a hug. Daya rested her head in the crook of his neck and melted into the warmth of his touch, stroking idly at Faust as she draped herself around their shoulders.

“I’m sorry, Daya,” he murmured. His hands combed through her hair, so gentle it made her want to cry. “I’m so sorry. I know how much you loved her.”

“Don’t talk about her. Please.” Her voice was barely above a whisper. “I can’t think about her right now.”

“Of course.” His arms tightened around her. “What can I do? What do you need from me?”

“Please just hold me. I don’t want to think.”

Asra pulled back, cupping her cheeks, and tipped her face up.

“You look so exhausted,” he murmured. “When’s the last time you slept?”

She had to laugh. “Do I really look that bad?”

“Don’t be silly. You’re beautiful as always, just tired. Have you slept?”

Daya shook her head. “I haven’t been able to. It’s too quiet. And...I’m afraid.”

Asra’s white brows drew together in a slight frown, but he didn’t ask her meaning. Instead he slipped off her lap and pulled her gently to her feet.

“Go upstairs,” he said. “I’ll join you after I lock up.”

* * *

 

She was so tired she barely remembered falling into bed, and when she next woke it was disorienting. The curtains were drawn, and she could feel Asra pressed up against her from behind. His arm wound around her abdomen, his forehead resting on the back of her neck. She could feel his breath fluttering on her neck, steady and even. Their legs were tangled together, feet bare.

Asra must have felt her stir, for he shifted to let her turn, still nestled in his arms.

“You okay?” he mumbled.

“Mm.” She rested her forehead in the crook of his neck, lips pressing his collarbone. “I don’t know what I’m going to do.”

“What do you mean?”

“I don’t…” she paused to toy with his necklace, and to enjoy the feeling of his hand tracing circles on her back. “I don’t know if I’m ready to run this place by myself.”

Asra pulled back a little so he could see her face.

“Didn’t your aunt teach you how to run the shop?” he asked, eyebrows raised. “I thought that was why she taught you magic.”

Daya’s mouth turned down at the corners, and tears welled in her eyes. “I thought that would be years from now. I can’t--I don’t think I can do it alone.”

She didn’t want to cry. She hadn’t cried in years; not even when she’d seen her childhood home go up in flames, and not since when her aunt took her back to the shop and told her what had really happened to her fathers. But it seemed inevitable now, given the exhaustion wringing her inside out, and the pile of papers in the backroom, demanding more attention than she had the energy to give.

Asra drew her upwards. His thumbs brushed over her cheeks, wiping away the tears.

“You’re not alone,” he said, and rested his forehead against hers. “You have me, okay? You’ll always have me.”

“I think something happened to her,” Daya said tremulously, curling her fingers in his shirt.

He frowned. “What do you mean?”

“I came home one night and overheard her reading tarot for someone, after hours.” She explained what she’d overheard: the demands of the customer, the cold eyes and blonde hair, and her aunt’s fear. When she trailed off into silence, Asra looked angry--and worried. He chewed his lip thoughtfully for a moment, looking away.

“I…” he paused, swallowed, and spoke again. “Count Lucio is known for making things...happen to people. Bad things. I don’t know if that happened to your aunt, but…”

Daya worried at her bottom lip, eyes wide. “Do you think he might come back? If he had something to do with ...with what happened...does that mean something will happen to me?”

“ _ No _ ,” Asra said sharply. He cupped her face in his hands and gazed at her intently. “Of course not, Daya. I won’t let anything happen to you, I promise. Try not to worry about this, or you won’t sleep.”

Daya closed her eyes with a sigh, her shoulders slumping, and let him draw her back down onto the bed. Her arms tightened around him. “What would I do without you?”

“Probably get into far more trouble,” Asra said idly, and she snorted.

They lay there together, limbs tangled, and the tension began to seep out of her muscles. Warmth surrounded her; Asra’s arms and his calming aura washed over her, and for the first time in days she finally began to feel safe.  
  



	5. Absit invidia

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Absit invidia - let envy be absent.  
> Time: -6 years pre-canon  
> Asra and Daya are about 20 years old.

Dawn in the central district usually brought with it a veil of mist that blanketed the streets in a dull grey miasma. It reminded Daya of winter in all the worst ways. Their body craved the sunshine, but mid-morning sleep-ins were years behind them. There was food to get and the shop had to be open in two hours, so when the sky began to turn grey and blue they were up.

They weren’t happy about it, but they were up.

“ _ Protego hanc domus _ ,” they whispered, and the front door of the shop glowed white. Daya stepped back, pulled on their scarf--then paused, as the hairs on the back of their neck prickled.

They glanced up and down the street warily, shoulders tensing, and in the shadows of a nearby alley they saw it. A dark figure looming in the shadows, menacing.

Fear stole the breath from their lungs, but they called fire to their hands regardless. Ribbons of smoke and flame sprung from their fingers and they approached the figure.

“Who are you?” they demanded. “Did  _ he _ send y--oh.”

A familiar face blinked at them from under a dark, fur-trimmed cloak. He was a few years older than Daya remembered, but there was no way they’d forget that distinctive height.

“Muriel?”

The young man pulled the cloak off his head, shaking his head as black hair tumbled over his shoulders.

“What are you doing here?” Daya asked, and let the flames die out. “You’ve never visited me before.”

“Not here to visit.” He sounded almost embarrassed. “Asra asked me to check on you.”

“Asra?” Their eyes brightened. “Is he back from his trip?”

Muriel shook his head and shuffled his feet from side to side. “He asked me...before we left.”

“Oh...well, that’s sweet of you. I’m about to run some errands if you want to join me.”

He shook his head again. Daya suddenly remembered what Asra had said about his friend’s discomfort with crowds.

“Would you like me to make you invisible?” they asked. “That way you can accompany me without having to worry about staring.”

Muriel paused, blinking, then a small smile tugged at his lips. He nodded.

He had to bend down to let Daya smooth the magic over the top of his head and across his cheeks. They could feel him fidgeting nervously under his touch, and he flinched when their fingers brushed over his shoulders.

“There,” Daya said. They led Muriel to a nearby puddle so he could see his reflection. “I can still see you, and you can see your reflection, but to everyone else you’re nothing but air. But if someone bumps into you they will feel you, so be careful.”

They headed back out the street leading to the market. Daya walked briskly; Muriel followed close at his heel. He seemed more relaxed than a few minutes ago, glancing around with a little interest at the buildings.

“I sometimes get anxious in big crowds too,” Daya said to him. “Is it the press of people, or do you not like the stares?”

“Both.”

“That’s fair. People can be thoughtless when it comes to others who are different. Not that you look bad or anything,” they added hastily, and Muriel’s dark brows drew together. “You’re quite distinctive. But I suppose you must get tired of hearing that.”

The market was all but deserted this early in the morning save for the vendors and a few other early risers. It was a sight that made Muriel’s shoulders relax further, and he let his pace slow a little.

“Do you mind if we make a stop?” Daya asked. “I’m starving.”

Another small smile. “Me too.”

“Oh? Then I’ll double my usual order.”

Daya beckoned him over to the baker’s stall, where the owner was kneading bread on a counter dusted with flour. This was about the only semi-permanent stall in the market; the man had been in business for years beyond counting.

“Dayana!” the baker said, raising a hand in welcome. “My first customer of the day. Come, sit. I have a loaf in the oven with your name on it.”

Daya glanced longingly at the little table shoved into the corner, but shook their head. “I’m running behind today, so I’ll have to take it home with me. Do you have another, by any chance?”

A younger man emerged from the back of the stall, carrying a little wicker basket covered in linen.

“Hello, Selasi,” Daya said. “You have good timing.”

The baker’s son smiled and laid the basket on the counter. He pulled back the linen cover, retrieved two loaves of pumpkin bread and wrapped them up.

“Here you are, Daya,” he said. “How is Asra? Still wandering the world?”

“Still wandering the world,” Daya replied, smiling wryly, and felt Muriel shift awkwardly beside them. They extended their hand to Selasi’s father, waving him closer.

“You’re too kind,” said the baker. 

“Looks painful,” Daya murmured, wincing in sympathy. There was a burn on his forearm they’d noticed, yellow-white and beginning to blister. Daya smoothed their hand over the wound and the skin flattened, brown-pink, shiny and new.

“Thank you, magician!” the baker called as they left. “Say hello to Asra when he returns! And make sure to come again soon!”

When they were out of earshot, Daya turned to Muriel. “Here, let’s stop for a moment.”

They turned into the same alleyway they’d been introduced, two years ago. Daya sat on a barrel and handed one of the loaves to Muriel, smiling up at him.

“This pumpkin bread is how I met Asra, you know,” they said as both of them ate.

Muriel shot them a glance in the middle of biting down on the bread; Daya took that as a cue to elaborate.

“It was the last night of the Masquerade, about four years ago now. He set up his booth at the back of my shop--well, it was my aunt’s shop at the time. He was there all day, so I brought him some of this bread from the market.” Daya smiled fondly at the memory; of the surprise on Asra’s face.

“Why?” Muriel asked in his low, gruff voice, and Daya glanced up. He was staring at them in confusion and disbelief between the strands of his long hair.

“Why what?” they asked, quirking an eyebrow.

“Why would you do that...for someone you don’t know.”

The question stumped Daya for a moment.

“Why?” they repeated slowly, blinking. “Because... he might not have eaten all day, and it was little trouble for me to bring him some food.”

Muriel dropped his gaze, but he still looked confused, and a sudden realisation made Daya draw closer, peering up into his face.

“Muriel,” they said, and he blinked. “Has no-one ever done something for you purely to be kind? Not ever?”

“No.” The green eyes dropped. “Not before...Asra.”

Stirred with pity, Daya touched his hand. Muriel flinched like the touch hurt him, but after a minute his fingers slackened. They gave his palm a little squeeze, and he flushed.

“I’m sorry you haven’t known a lot of kindness,” they murmured. Muriel shrugged; he tried to pull his hand back, but they held on. “Muriel...there’s a lot of people in this world who delight in being cruel, but there’s more who will be kind to you. And you do deserve kindness, the same as everyone else.”

They ate in silence for a few more moments. Then Daya drew in a deep breath and spoke.

“I did want to ask something of you,” they said, and Muriel glanced over sharply. “I wanted to ask about Count Lucio.”

The young man stiffened, the last piece of bread squashed in his hand.

“You don’t have to,” Daya said hastily. “I know you’re not--well, I know there’s a story.”

Muriel’s hands curled into fists.

“Asra told you,” he muttered, his voice low.

Daya shook their head. “He said it wasn’t his story to tell, and I never pressed him for it. It’s not my business. I’m asking because I think--I think Count Lucio harmed my aunt.”

Quickly they filled him in on the details of the story: the night Lucio came to the shop, his aunt’s fear, the disappearance, the guards at his door. Muriel listened silently, his brows pinched. 

“It’s been nearly a year,” Daya finished, “and I just--I don’t know what to do about it. Or what I can do.”

“You can’t do anything.”

“I don’t believe that. I can’t.”

Muriel frowned. “He’s the Count.”

“I know he’s the Count. I--” Daya stopped with a grunt of frustration. “I’m sorry, I’m angry at Count Lucio, not you. But surely you’re angry at him too? Not just because of what happened to--to Asra’s parents, and to my aunt--but to the state of the city. The disease, and the flooding, and the Coliseum fights. It’s like Vesuvia means nothing to him.”

“I am angry,” Muriel said, in his low voice, and there was an edge of steel Daya hadn’t heard before. His fists clenched on his knees. “I hate him.”

“Me too,” Daya said softly.

Silence fell, punctuated by the murmur of the gathering market crowds. Then Daya stood, and before Muriel could move, wrapped their arms around the young man’s middle. He froze...then tentatively returned the embrace.

“Thank you for checking on me,” they said. “I know you don’t really like me that much.”

“It’s not that,” Muriel mumbled, and he looked so wildly uncomfortable Daya didn’t press him. They stepped back, squeezing his arm, and smiled up at him.

“It’s not important if you don’t,” they said. “As long as you know I care about Asra as much as you do, that’s all that matters.”

Was that shame in his expression? Guilt? It was impossible to tell; Muriel was a man of inscrutable expressions even without the curtain of hair that covered his face.

“I need to go,” Daya added, and pulled their hood over their head. “That invisibility spell will take at least an hour to wear off, so you should be able to make the journey home in peace.”

They turned away, took a few steps back towards the mouth of the alley--

“Thanks.”

Daya glanced over their shoulder, this time straight into Muriel’s eyes as he perched on the barrel. His hands spread relaxed over his thighs, and he gave them a little nod.  
“For the talk,” he added gruffly. “And for…looking out for Asra.”

Daya’s expression softened, and a smile spread over their face.

“You’re welcome,” they said--and meant it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Protego hanc domus means protect this house. At least, I hope it does.


	6. Esse est percipi

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Esse est percipi - to see is to be perceived.  
> Time: -5 years pre-canon  
> Asra and Daya are 21 years old.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please note Book XXI spoilers ie Asra's surname is mentioned.

“Is this everything you imagined?”

A sea of light and dazzling colour greeted Daya as they spun on the spot, anchored by the warm hands that held them. The palace ballroom was even more overwhelming than they’d imagined: glittering masks and fabrics coupled with the murmur of conversation and the smell of richer food than they’d ever tasted in their life.

Asra pulled them back in gently so they were facing, as close as their masks would allow.

“No,” Daya said honestly. “It’s better. I always wished you’d be the first I’d dance with.”

They’d been to the Masquerade once, some three years earlier whn their aunt received an invitation. Now it was they who had the invite, along with Asra. It was hard not to be nervous -- all things considered. But they were coping, mostly. The tentative anonymity of their mask helped somewhat.

Asra must have sensed the change in their mood, for he squeezed their hand. “What’s wrong, Daya?”

“I’m worried,” Daya confessed as they spun slowly. “My aunt was invited to the Masquerade a few years ago, and then...well, you know what happened. Do you think…?”

“Nothing’s going to happen to you.” Asra cupped their cheek, his fingers edging their mask up. “You know I wouldn’t allow that.”

“You can’t save me from everything,” they replied, then sighed as he frowned. “I’m sorry. I don’t mean to be morose.”

“I love you,” he breathed against their cheek. “Even when you’re morose.”

The song ended with a flourish and applause erupted around the dance floor. Asra raised their hand to his lips and peppered their knuckles with kisses, smiling slyly.

“Good evening, Vesuvia!”

The lips on their hand paused. Daya saw Asra’s eyes flick to the grand staircase, where a figure in white descended. They caught sight of slicked blonde hair, cold blue eyes and a flash of gold before recognition sent adrenaline surging through their body.

They moved without even thinking, Asra’s hand tearing from their grip. 

A rustle of fabric. Indignant sounds as they pushed past the guests. Hurried footsteps; hers and others clacking on polished stone. Daya’s senses registered the sounds as they happened, but their body moved of their own accord, overwhelmed by the need to run.

They burst out into the hallway. Empty, echoing, bright. Too bright, too open, too  _ loud-- _

“Daya--”

Asra’s voice behind her, with a note of alarm. Daya hit the wall and slid down, head in hands. Their breath came out in sobs.

“Daya. Daya.”

Asra dropped to his knees before her, careless of his coat-tails crumpling, and wrapped them in a hug.

“It’s okay,” he said in their ear. “Just breathe, slow and deep.”

Gradually Daya’s breathing slowed...then quietened. Eventually they sat back, wiping their tears with the heel of their hand.

“Are you okay?” Asra asked; he looked frantic, grasping their forearms tightly. “I’ve never seen you panic like that. What happened?”

“I’m--I’m fine,” Daya choked. “I’m okay. I just heard his voice and it...”

They trailed off wordlessly, chest tightening, and Asra pressed his hand against their breastbone.

“Shh,” he said, low and soothing. “You don’t need to talk about it. I understand. Do you want to go home?”

“No.” 

Daya shook their head vehemently, and began to stand. Asra steadied them with his hands on their shoulders.

“Are you sure?”

“I’m sure.” They would have rather confronted a hundred Lucios than make Asra miss the Masquerade on their account, but he didn’t need to hear that. “I’m just dizzy. I need some air.”

“If you’re sure,” Asra said, doubtfully. “We can go out to the veranda.”

Daya clung to his arm as he guided them down the hallway. The gleaming stone made their eyes hurt, but the more they squinted the less painful it became. They didn’t think to ask how Asra knew where he was going, but he seemed to be comfortable leading them through the endless hallways. 

After a few minutes he guided them out through a pair of double doors onto a veranda, decorated festively for the party. It was mercifully empty of guests and all but a single servant standing at the door.

Daya leaned against the balcony, pulled off their mask and breathed deeply, letting the air dry the tears on their face. They let their shoulders slump and their head droop as the tension began to flow out of them.

“Better?” Asra murmured.

“Mmm.” Daya lifted their head and gave them a watery smile. “You should go back to the party, beloved. I’m making you miss out on the bubble room.”

“Daya,” he said admonishingly. “You don’t expect me to try the bubble room on my own, do you? It wouldn’t be half as fun without you.”

They laughed. Asra drew closer, nuzzling their cheek affectionately.

“I didn’t think so,” he whispered, and kissed her ear. Daya leaned their head against his shoulder, welcoming the warmth of his arm around them, and they stood quietly together for a few minutes, until Daya’s breathing slowed and deepened. Eventually they sighed and lifted their head, pulling back so they could see Asra’s face.

“My timing is probably awful,” they began, “but seeing we’re alone...I did have something to discuss with you.”

“Oh?”

“Um. So, we’ve been together for a while, and I’ve been happier than I have been in a long time...”

“So have I,” he said, his smile soft.

Daya took a deep breath. “Well, I--I would really like it if you came to live with me at the shop. I have it worked out,” they added, as Asra’s eyes widened. “You can read your cards from the back room, and you can set up your own sleeping space, if you’d rather not share the bed.” 

His eyes were glittering, they realised, and he had a strange expression on his face.

“I know you’re already living with Muriel, but…”

Daya paused as a brilliant smile spread over Asra’s face. He pressed forward, taking their face in his hands, and kissed them--once, twice, three times, even as they laughed against his lips.

“Yes! Yes, of course I will. I was hoping you’d ask--” 

Asra spun them, prompting a fit of giggles, and then they pressed together--noses touching and arms wrapped around each other, breathing each other in.

“I love you,” Daya whispered, kissing his nose. “I love you so much. And look, you’ve chased away my anxiety.”

A delicate cough from behind cut through Asra’s soft laugh, making them both jump. They turned, separating, and blinked at the entrance to the veranda. A woman stood silhouetted against the lantern light.

Asra dropped to one knee. “Countess.”

Caught between surprise and anxiety, Daya gave an awkward bow. They recognised the woman now, though they’d only seen her in glimpses--including the night she had arrived in town five years before.

The Countess moved towards them. She had a mask of black and gold in her hands, which she toyed with idly. Her red eyes swept over the two magicians. When she spoke her voice was smooth and heavy with her Prakran accent.

“I see I am not the only one who does not enjoy the Count’s speeches.”

Asra rose, adjusting his gloves.

“It’s my fault, Countess,” Daya said, before he could speak. “I was feeling unwell, and needed some air.”

A smile pulled at the Countess’s lips. “Peace, Dayana Firestone. I don’t fault you for excusing yourself.”

“How did you--”

“Know your name?” She moved closer, to a small table Daya had missed in their haste to get onto the veranda, and beckoned them to sit. “Did I not extend an invitation to you and your companion? I don’t believe we’ve been introduced.”

Asra smiled, adjusting his coat-tails. 

“My name is Asra, Countess,” he said, in the voice Daya knew he used to reserve for their aunt. “I’m delighted to meet you.”

“Likewise. My name is Nadia; I assume you know my title already. Please, sit.”

A servant appeared at the Countess’s elbow with a bottle and three glasses. As they sat, she poured a glass for each of them before serving herself.

“Are you enjoying the Masquerade?” she asked, and took a sip of her wine.

“Very much so, Countess,” Asra said, and Daya suddenly envied him for the ease he had in slipping into proper etiquette. “You and the Count have outdone yourself. Is the bubble room new?”

“An old favourite, actually. In recent years I have convinced Lucio to make some changes to the entertainment on offer.” Countess Nadia smiled. “But I did not invite you to hear small talk. I invited you to enjoy the festivities of the Masquerade...and in return I ask that you read my fortune.”

The request took Daya by surprise. 

“Oh. You want me to read the cards for you?”

“Yes, if you would.”

“Well, I suppose I…oh, I’m afraid I don’t have my deck.”

Asra reached into his pocket and produced a black silk pouch.

“Here you are, my love,” he said, and handed it over. “I thought we may need them.”

Daya glanced quizzically at him, but he said nothing else--only gave them a smile full of pride.

“Excellent,” the Countess said, and sat back in her chair. “What would you have me do?”

There was no refusing, it seemed.

“Nothing, Countess, unless you have a specific question to ask.” 

Daya cut and shuffled the cards as they had done a hundred times. Nervousness radiated from them in waves; they knew Asra sensed it, for he gave them a reassuring smile. They closed their eyes and took a deep breath. The cards wouldn’t speak if they weren’t calm, and that would be worse than losing their nerve in front of the Countess.

“Past, present and future,” they said aloud. “An insight reading, if that’s agreeable to you.”

“By all means,” Countess Nadia replied smoothly, and tapped her lips with an elegant finger. “Please.”

Asra shuffled his chair a little closer to them, until his hand could pat Daya’s knee under the table. They laid out three cards, put the deck aside and flipped the first.

“The High Priestess.”

Countess Nadia’s brows rose.

“An enigmatic card, one that could indicate a guide or patron that you call upon to develop your intuition. To me, it suggests magic is not unknown to you.”

They glanced up, but the Countess only looked down at the card. Her eyelashes were so long they obscured her eyes, and she gave nothing else away in her expression.

“How intriguing,” was all she said.

Daya flipped the second card. “The Devil.”

Another expression passed over the Countess’s face, equally inscrutable.

“Bondage,” Daya said, feeling distinctly uncomfortable. “Entrapment and emptiness.”

The Countess locked eyes with them. Her gaze held a keen interest--but also a challenge. Daya felt a bead of sweat roll down the back of their neck, but underneath the anxiety was a sense of defiance. She had wanted a reading, hadn’t she? And if Daya were to pay for their words…

But the Countess did not seem like her husband, and that thought gave Daya the courage they needed to speak.

“Perhaps,” they continued quietly, steadily, “an unhappy marriage.”

The silence that followed was almost painful. Countess Nadia took a sip of wine, her eyes locked on Daya’s. But far from being angry, she seemed satisfied.

Sighing, Daya flipped the third card. “Death.”

The Countess’s eyebrows raised. “Death?”

“Don’t be alarmed, Countess,” Asra said, and squeezed Daya’s knee. “Death is a card of transformation. Its appearance can mean an ending, but also a new beginning. It’s not to be feared.”

“I see.” Countess Nadia looked thoughtful, her fingers tapping on her wine glass. “What advice can the cards offer me?”

“To allow yourself to be guided more by your feelings,” Daya replied, and gathered up the deck. “Embrace change, even if it seems frightening.”

She laughed softly. “Do I seem easily frightened to you, magician?”

“No. But everyone fears something, and each in their own way. Fearing change is normal, but if you have people you can rely on, the burden is less troublesome.” Daya exchanged a smile with Asra and lifted his hand to their lips.

Another swift, searching look from Countess Nadia. Then she smiled.

“Thank you, Dayana,” she said, “and thank you for your honesty. It is refreshing to have the cards read by a true master, not the frauds that litter the marketplace.” She stood, and Asra and Daya followed suit. “If you will excuse me, I must return to the ballroom...if only to temper my husband. Feel free to enjoy all the palace has to offer this night.”

With a swish of rich fabric, she was gone, and Daya sagged in their chair.

“D--did that just happen?” they wheezed, clutching their chest. “The Countess asked me--to read her fortune and I--”

“You were magnificent, of course,” Asra said, laughing, and put the cards back in his pocket. “I knew you would be.”

“Did you  _ know _ she invited me to--”

Asra’s mischievous grin said it all.

“--ohhh. You.” Daya pointed an accusing finger, and Asra began to laugh. “YOU. You picked up the invitations. You--you knew this was-- _ Asra Alnazar! _ ”

Asra collapsed against their shoulder in a fit of giggles.

“Your face--” he choked out, and Daya grabbed him by the chin and kissed him.

“I hate you,” they said, when they separated.

“No, you don’t.”

“No, I don’t. Well, maybe just a little.” They held him by the chin and looked at him fondly, their heart full to bursting. “What am I going to do with you?”

Asra pretended to think as Daya drew him up, adjusting his collar and sleeves. 

“Well, we could go home and…” he leaned forward to whisper in their ear. Daya blushed violently, muffling their laughter against his shoulder.

“How about a compromise?” they said, when they could speak again. “First we try the bubble room, then we go home and--do that.”

Asra brought their hand to his lips, his eyes dancing. “Deal.”


	7. Fac fortia et patere

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fac fortia et patere - do brave deeds and endure.  
> Time: -5 years pre-canon  
> Asra and Daya are 21 years old.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For a specific timeline I would say this occurs about three months after the Masquerade.

“I don’t want to go, Asra,” Daya said, and stood up. “I don’t know how many times I have to tell you.”

She grabbed the mug out of his hands.

“Ah--I’m not finished.”

Daya set the mug back down with a sigh and went into the kitchen. She didn’t have to look at Asra to know how he felt: fear, frustration, confusion, hurt. Always that undercurrent of fear.

She understood. She sympathized. And yet...yet they’d been having the same argument for weeks. Nothing had come of it besides hurt feelings.

“It would only be for a few months,” Asra said. “The plague is getting worse. I spoke to Selasi in the market yesterday. His father just came down with it.”

Daya sighed. She’d known that already when she passed by the baker’s house--the streak of red paint on the door signaled the presence of a plague victim, dead or dying. Guards had painted the same thing on her childhood house, before they’d burned it--and everything in it.

“I’ve heard about a clinic in the South End,” she began, “one that’s treating plague sufferers. The doctor who runs it is looking for an apprentice--”

“Daya, no.”

She ignored him. “I’m going to close the shop for a while, offer my help. I’ve already written to him, and he wants to meet me tomorrow.”

“No!”

Asra was on his feet in a flash, hurrying around the table to grasp her shoulders.

“Daya, please.” He touched her cheeks, her hair, her shoulders before bringing her hands to his lips. “Please, Daya,  _ please _ . Let’s leave. Please--I’m begging you.”

“I can’t!” she said angrily, tearing herself away from his embrace. “Did you forget my parents died of this disease too? I told you that years ago! If I could have helped them -- if  _ anyone _ had helped them instead of letting them just waste away --”

Asra followed her back around the table, hands thrown up. “You think your parents would have wanted you to get sick looking after them? Don't be ridiculous.”

“Don't fucking tell me what they would or wouldn't have done. You don't even  _ have  _ parents.”

She regretted the words the instant they left her mouth.

Asra drew back like he'd been slapped. His eyes narrowed; he leveled her with a hard stare.

“Fine,” he said, and his voice was like ice.

He brushed past her and retrieved his bag where it had sprawled earlier, tossed over the old armchair. As Daya watched he began to rummage in the closet, separating clothes and shoving them into his bag.

A lump rose in her throat. 

“You're..leaving?” she said, and her voice had never sounded so small and tremulous as it did then.

“We've had our share of disagreements, but I've never known you to be cruel to me _ ,  _ Daya,” Asra said. He didn't look at her as he lifted Faust from the windowsill and shrugged on his jacket. “I'm not going to stay here and wait to die on top of that. Vesuvia is done.”

“Vesuvia is our  _ home _ ,” Daya said insistently. She moved in front of him as he turned to leave. “Asra, please. I’m sorry for what I said. I understand you’re angry.”

“I’m not angry,” Asra snapped. “I’m disappointed.”

She frowned. “What do you mean?”

“I thought you were smarter than this. The Red Death, it’s...it’s bigger than Vesuvia can deal with. You know what the Count is like.” He brushed past her and grabbed his hat from the hook above the stairwell. “If you think anything you do will make a difference--”

“That doesn’t mean we shouldn’t try!”

“Well, good luck to you. If you catch the plague, don’t expect me to return for you.”

Daya knew the words were meant to reflect his hurt back onto her; that they lacked real venom, but they stung regardless.

“Asra--” she caught his wrist as he began to descend the stairs. He turned to look back at her, eyes glittering with unshed tears.

“You’re a fool, Daya,” he said coldly, and shrugged off her grip. “And you’ll die like one.”

Numbly she let her hands drop to her sides, and watched him descend out of sight. The sound of boots thudding on the stairs, a slamming door--then silence fell. Daya sat down on the top stair, hands trembling, and let her head hang between her knees. 

Only then did she let herself cry.  
  



	8. Littera scripta manet

**I.**

_ Dear Asra, _

_ I don't know if you'll read this. Perhaps you're angry, and if you were, I wouldn't blame you. We said horrible things to each other. I said a horrible thing, and it doesn't matter that I was hurting. I'm sorry and I hope you can forgive me. I love you. I will continue to love you even if you're a thousand miles away. _

_ (I hope you're not. I hope you come back soon. Our bed feels empty without you.) _

_ Do you remember the clinic I mentioned? I have been working there for the past two weeks. It's run by a man named Ilya Devorak, a doctor from Nevivon. He knows the Red Death -- what it looks like and how to treat it. Under his instruction I have learned much about physic. How to ease suffering, how to prevent the spread of disease.  _

_ If you worry, don't. I'm well protected. I hope that brings you a small measure of comfort. _

_ I love you. I miss you. I hope you and Faust are having fun. Please come home when you’re no longer angry. _

_ Yours, _

_ Daya _

* * *

 

**II.**

_ My love, _

_ I haven't heard from you, but I write regardless. I hope my words reach you wherever you are, and know I'm always thinking of you. _

_ I continue to work with Doctor Devorak. He is a good man. He works hard to ensure the sick are made comfortable, and eases their passing if or when they go. The plague is only becoming worse, and most who contract it do not survive. Those who do are left with lasting damage, physically disfigured or with ill health that lasts a lifetime. _

_ If you wonder, I do fear the plague. I fear catching it, as my parents did. As the baker’s father did. But Doctor Devorak takes measures to prevent its spread, through cleanliness and through what he calls barriers. Gloves that cover my hands. A mask to cover my face. An apron to cover my clothes. I told you I was well-protected, and the doctor will not allow me near his patients without these coverings. _

_ I think if you met the doctor you would like him. I find myself liking him. He has an easy manner to him that reminds me of you. He makes me laugh, like you make me laugh. It makes me long for you more than I can express. _

_ Our days are hard, long and I'm often tired. I wish I could come home to you. I love you and miss you always. Please write and let me know you're well. At least do this, even if you cannot forgive me. _

_ Your Daya _

* * *

 

**III.**

_ My dear, _

_ (Do not mind the different greeting. The doctor's affectations rub off on me.) _

_ You must be angry to not respond after so many weeks. I understand. I do. But will you not write to me and let me know you are safe? It's not like you to let me worry. I also want to know Faust is safe. Please give her a chin scritch from me. _

_ You may be interested to hear this. Rumour has it the plague has reached the palace, with Count Lucio being ill for some weeks now. I have not heard of the Countess’s health, but I suppose no news is good news. _

_ Accordingly, our ‘esteemed’ Count has approved a venture to find a cure for the plague, likely motivated by his own impending mortality. He extends an invitation to all manner of experts to use the resources the palace has to offer. He has invited doctors, magicians, alchemists, pharmacists--even clevermen.  _

_ Ilya (that is, Doctor Devorak) has left the running of the clinic in my hands and accepted the invitation. We have become friendly in these months, and if I can be honest, he has been a source of comfort to me. _

_ I have often told you how you light up any room, and it wasn’t simple flattery. The shop seems dull and lifeless without you. I don’t wish to replace you with Ilya. I wish only for you to come home and end this cruel silence. _

_ There are so few people in Vesuvia now. Many are dead, but many have also left, like you did. If you are not coming back, if this is it...I will understand. But for the sake of how long we have known each other, I beg you to tell me if you are safe. One letter, that’s all I ask. For the life we shared. _

_ Daya _

_ P.S. my letters may be less frequent as I take on the extra responsibility of running the clinic. Ilya says I am ready. I comfort myself by thinking you would have the same confidence in me. _

  
  
  
  



	9. Dies irae

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dies irae - day of wrath.  
> Time: -4 years pre-canon  
> Asra is 22 years old.

He had never seen the streets so empty.

Asra moved down the street at a headlong pace, lungs burning. On a normal day the crowds would have been out in force, flowing between the south market and the docks. Now there were so little people...and so  _ many _ red-painted doors.

His nerves felt raw here, fear keeping his chest tight. But still he kept an eye out, and when he saw the clinic -- a wooden sign with a painted bottle of leeches -- he veered towards it. And stopped, as he caught sight of the red paint smeared over the doorframe. 

Of course it would be marked, he reminded himself, as his stomach clenched. This was the ultimate haven for plague sufferers.

Asra tried the door. Locked.

Confusion overtook him. He leaned against the building and pulled the stack of letters from his bag. They were dog eared and fraying, worn from being read many times -- but never replied to. A reaction borne of pride, and one he now regretted. The last two were particularly creased and many lines were crossed out, as if they had run out of parchment.

 

_ D  e ar As ra _

_ Forgive the shortnes of the letter. I dont know how Ilya ran this clinic by himself. Exhaustin g. I dont know where you are and I dont know why you wont answer my letters. I dream of you every night. Please dont leave me to wonder so callously. _

_ Day  a _

 

He closed his eyes, imagining the words as if they fell from their lips. When he could hold the paper without trembling, he read the last one.

 

_ Asra _

_ You must hate me. Why else would you meet my le ters with cold sile nce _

_ Please Im sory. If I could take it back I would _

 

Asra clutched the last letter to his chest and knew a moment of bitter regret.

Two weeks it had been since the letter found him, inkstained and tremulous. Daya had always written in a beautiful cursive (maybe he was a lovesick fool, to think even their handwriting was lovely, but they  _ did _ ) -- it had to be fatigue. It had to be. Anything else was unthinkable. Unacceptable.

Faust peeked out from under his scarf. Her tongue flicked the air, and she slithered across the paper, across his hand. 

_ Daya? _

“I don’t know, Faust,” Asra said heavily. “I think they must have gone to help the doctor.” Knowing Daya, they would have worked themself to exhaustion, and then they would have pushed themself some more.

Even if they were better now. Even if they were angry at his stubbornness; even if they had finally given up on trying to contact him...it didn’t matter. Together they could talk it out. They always did.

Faust slid over his shoulders, and Asra nuzzled her with his cheek.

_ Snooze? _

“You snooze,” Asra said, stroking her chin. “I need to find Daya.”

Faust sent him a distinct sensation of disapproval, but Asra placed her in his bag and moved away from the door. He was exhausted, it was true, but he couldn’t wait any longer. He had to find them--he had to know they were alright.

* * *

 

His legs were burning by the time he reached the palace.

It wasn't hard to bluff his way inside. The doors were open to any who offered help to cure the plague, and it had only been a matter of convincing the chamberlain he was there to consult with the doctors. From there it was only too easy to be pointed to the library.

The palace hadn't changed much in the year or so since Asra had attended the Masquerade--with Daya, he reminded himself sadly--but without the festivities it seemed oddly empty. 

The library door was open, its heavy carved door braced against the wall. Asra walked in with purpose -- and there was a desk shoved against the far wall, like the chamberlain said. A man sat in the spindly chair, poring over a large red tome.

Daya had never described the doctor’s appearance in their letters, but the plague mask hanging off his chair gave him away immediately. He was thin, and tall enough that he needed to hunch over the desk. Red curls flopped over his face; over a long nose and sharp chin.

“Doctor Devorak?” Asra asked.

The man jumped, glanced around wildly and looked right at him. His grey eyes widened, and--strangely--a flash of recognition passed over his face.

“You're Asra, aren't you? Asra Alnazar?”

For a moment Asra paused, taken aback. “You know me?”

“No,” Doctor Devorak replied. He rose slowly, closed the book with a thud and approached, adjusting his jacket. “My apprentice described you. Dayana Firestone--Daya. They, uh, made mention of you.”

Asra’s stomach clenched at the fondness in the man’s expression. An idle thought crossed his mind, but he pushed it away--he had no business questioning either of them over what might have happened in his absence. He had no right.

“They did?” he said, tongue thick in his mouth.

“Ah, well, to say they only mentioned you once or twice is quite an understatement. Daya spoke of you fondly. A lot, actually.” The man extended his hand. “Ilya Devorak. Or Julian, if you prefer. I know Nevivon names aren’t easy on the tongue. Not if you’re used to Vesuvian, as it were.”

“You talk about them as if they’re--” Asra’s heart twisted painfully in his chest; he took a deep, shuddering breath and steeled himself. “Where is Daya?”

The doctor left his hand hanging awkwardly for a moment, then withdrew it, running his long fingers through his hair.

“Asra...why don't we go somewhere else to talk? I have an office down in the --”

“I'm not interested in talking,” Asra replied coldly. “I want to know where they are.”

Ilya sighed. 

“They’re gone,” he said finally. His shoulders slumped. “One of the other doctors took them to the Lazaret two days ago.”

“What do you mean, they’re  _ gone? _ What the  _ hell _ is the Lazaret?” 

His heart was thundering in his ears, panic building in his chest. Faust poked her head out of his bag; Ilya’s eyes flicked to the snake questioningly, then back to him.

“It's where they take the sick who..who are almost...”

He trailed off. Guilt flashed across his face.

“No,” Asra said. The sick dread caught in his chest, and he felt dizzy.

“Asra, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry you had to find out like this.” The man looked wretched, Asra observed from some faraway place in his mind. Guilt and regret painted his sharp features, made his pale skin even paler. “I only just found out.”

Asra looked at the remorse in the doctor’s expression, and wondered how he could so hate a person he had only just met.

“I don’t want your apology,” he said, his voice low.

“I--I know. Sorry doesn’t seem to be enough...”

“It’s not. No--” Asra stepped back as Ilya reached for him, his expression empathetic. “Don’t touch me. I’ll find my own way out.”

He turned on his heel without another word and left, before the tears could spill down his cheeks, and ignored Ilya’s voice calling his name.

Gone. Gone, they were  _ gone _ , and he was too late.

The pain in his chest intensified, and Asra forced the sobs down into his stomach. He would not be seen broken. Not by Ilya-- _ especially _ not by him. The thought made him want to vomit.

_ Daya? _

“Not here, Faust,” Asra said breathlessly, as his pace quickened. “But we’ll find them.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you hate me now find comfort in the fact I made myself extremely sad writing this
> 
> Also, I want to clarify that I don't think Asra hated Julian for long, and especially not when he and Julian had a physical relationship. I think Asra hated/resented Julian because in his mind Julian was meant to protect the apprentice. I think that's tied up in a lot of the guilt Asra feels for leaving the apprentice in Vesuvia to suffer that fate, so they kind of turn that resentment onto Julian. And for my personal canon, that he didn't answer any of Daya's letters, but kept them because he knew it meant they were alive. When the letters stopped arriving monthly is when he began to worry. (No, I don't think ghosting your s/o is a healthy way to deal with an argument. But Asra is a Gemini so)
> 
> I think Asra's feelings temper with time and I think the knowledge that he was working towards bringing the apprentice back gave him some comfort and mellowed his feelings out towards Julian a bit. I also think for my personal canon that he tried to make an effort to be warmer towards him because Daya expressed in their letters that they liked him.


End file.
